


The Heretics

by Salon_Kitty



Category: Breaking Bad
Genre: Blue Christmeth 2015, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-13 02:40:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5691541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salon_Kitty/pseuds/Salon_Kitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Breathe, Lydia.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pt 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WithoutAQualmOfConscience](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WithoutAQualmOfConscience/gifts).



> Some brief dialogue is lifted from 'Dead Freight', written by George Mastras, and 'Felina', by Vince Gilligan.
> 
> Thanks so much to [laliquey](http://archiveofourown.org/users/laliquey/pseuds/laliquey) for taking the time to beta this.

 

_The Heretics_

 

 

 

Lydia presses down on the red tab of her phone again. “Elsa, I’m just getting ready to leave. Forward any messages to my cell phone, okay? I’m still waiting on the buyer from Beijing to return my call.”

“Yes, Lydia. I’ll see you tomorrow, then. Good luck with your daughter’s recital.”

“Sure, thanks. I’ll – I’m – I’m just coming out.”

She slips on her high heels and flips up her collar, reaching for her jacket slung over the chair as she stands to her full height. Briefcase in hand with a purse slung over her shoulder, Lydia swishes past Elsa in the outer office, waving once in a hasty goodbye as her footfalls thump softly on the carpet. Lydia is still as she rides down in the elevator, her scurrying thoughts silenced for the allotment of minutes it takes her to reach the first floor. With her heels clicking across the tiles, she feels a sigh break the stiffness in her shoulders as she heads for the Madrigal parking lot, her silver Mercedes embedded amongst a sea of them.

Her hand is on the car door when she hears them, something hard and compact pressing into the small of her back.

“You’re going move nice and slow, Lydia. Turn around and get in the back of the car, no complaints. We’re going to have a little chat, the four of us. Elsewhere.”

“Mike,” she gasps, her eyes stretched till they ache as she turns around, two other men flanking him with solemn expressions. She recognizes the younger one who came to retrieve the barrel a few nights ago straight away. “Why didn’t you call? I’m –what’s this about?” She knows, of course, but her brain is scrambling for delays, her mouth sputtering as they guide her towards the Cadillac a few feet away, the back door hanging open like an executioner with his axe. “I need to be home soon, you should have – you know you should call so I’m prepared for these things – ”

“Stop talking, Lydia, and get in the car.” He nods his head to the kid, whose wide-eyed stare seems to be mirroring her own. “Jesse, you get in the back with her, and watch her closely.”

Once the doors close, the locks echo through the car and Lydia is trapped inside, her nerves screaming, something thick and cloying lodged in her throat. “Mike,” she begins again, his name more of a cough, fear spinning around her like a cocoon. “This is a mistake,” she tries, inserting some force into her voice. The man in the passenger seat looks at her dismissively with a shake of his head before turning back to face the window, and Lydia looks to her co-captor in the back seat for some sign, some warning that they’re driving her to her death. Lydia thinks of Kiira coming home to an empty house and her stomach ties up in knots, a sour taste surging up into her esophagus until her chest burns. It can’t be like before, she won’t have her daughter go through that again.

From up front, Mike stretches his hand back, a cloth tucked in his fist. “You’re gonna want to blindfold her. Unless she starts yapping with her excuses. Then you can stuff it in her mouth.”

The Jesse kid looks at her with a note of apology as he takes the material from Mike’s hand. “Sorry, but you heard him. I’m gonna need you to turn around.”

“This is crazy,” she insists, a strangled half-laugh coalescing into a grunt as she looks from one man to the next, the back of Mike’s head making her want to scream as she raises a hand in protest. “I mean, what is even going _on?_ I don’t – you can’t, this is just …” The words topple over each other on her tongue, the injustice of it all a slap in the face, but an eerie acceptance of her fate hangs like a curtain at her back. Lydia is woozy, wants it to be over quick, and then Kiira’s face looms forth. She grabs hold of the kid’s wrist and he physically pales before her. “My daughter will be home soon. I can’t be late. Her recital is tonight.” She pleads with her eyes, searching for any glimmer of empathy in Jesse’s face as he gapes back at her.

“Mike, are you sure this is a good idea to do this now?”

“Jesse, just do it,” the other man says in exasperation, and Lydia suddenly realizes this is him, this is the chemist. Not some assassin like whoever set up Fring. They might just let her live.

Jesse pushes at her shoulder. “Seriously, turn around. I got to put this on.”

The car glides smoothly through the late afternoon, avoiding the heavy traffic of the hour as they end up on some back road, Lydia feeling the air conditioning come through the cracks in the seats as she stares blindly in the direction of her window, imagining the world on the other side of her sash, the bright light transmuting to warmth on her face. Jesse has his hand resting between her shoulder blades, keeping her stationary, as if she might throw open the door at any moment and jump from a moving car. “Just keep it together, Lydia,” she whispers to herself, her thumbs stitching each other over and over. “You can do this. They just want to talk.”

“What?” The kid’s voice pipes up behind her, sounding a little bit panicked, and Lydia can imagine what his face must look like already.

“Just ignore her, kid. That one is more devious than us all, trust me.” Mike makes a sucking sound with his teeth and Lydia holds her breath, focusing on the motion of the Cadillac as she waits for the tires to turn into wherever they’re taking her.

 

*

 

“Look at me, not at them. _Lydia! Look_ at me _.”_ She gawks at the other men helplessly, but Mike forces her attention back to him. “If you make Schrader suspicious, in any way … any way at all, tell me what’s going to happen.”

“You’ll pull out your gun and shoot me,” she responds instantly.

“And where will I shoot you?”

“In the head.” She sees Kiira curled in her lap and crying inconsolably, begging for her father.

“That’s right. And it’s a pistol, not a gun. I’m expecting precision here.”

She reads off of their ridiculous script and bluffs her way through the phone call with the DEA agent, Mike breathing down her neck the whole time, her wrist chafing from the too-tight handcuff that’s manacled her to the table. It’s going to leave a nasty mark for at least a week and she’ll have to order several more long sleeved blouses for work to keep it covered. Of all the things that Mike could accuse her of, she’s apoplectic that she might be murdered over something she had no part in. The injustice of it sweeps over her again as she eavesdrops on them conferring with each other at the other end of the room in this dank and dreary warehouse they’ve brought her to. It’s obscene that Lydia’s even here. She’s on the executive board of a global conglomerate. She can speak four languages. Her net worth is close to eight million, all stuffed in Swiss and island accounts. Her life can’t possibly end in a place like this.

“The woman put a … _hit_ out on me,” Mike seethes as the other two bend in closer. He’s taking it personally, but she should have expected that. Fring would have been much more forgiving; his professionalism would have categorized the act as just another course of business. The room seems to grow warmer the more they collude and it feels like flames are licking at her cheeks and the tips of her ears as her voice rings out through the abandoned space. But her protestations aren’t being entirely ignored. She can see the younger one … Jesse … he’s nervous about this, twitchy, giving her guilty looks every few minutes like he’s just as afraid as her where this might end up. Lydia seizes onto this kernel of compassion, trying to meet his eyes the next time he glances back at her. The kid is a variable she needs, a conscience she can work on. He’s currently the only one willing to believe her.

“A hit? What? Like the Mafia?”

“Yeah. Like the Mafia.”

And that’s when the idea comes to her.

 

*

 

“Alright, this is your stop, Lydia.”

They’re back in the Madrigal parking lot and Lydia is simultaneously flushed with the victory of talking her way out of a death sentence and too terrified to move. She only narrowly made it out of there alive. And now her legs are having problems working, her body like a tuning fork wavering on a frequency she can’t control, the din in her ears blocking out what the men are saying to her, their faces a mix of alarm and disgust. Lydia wants to get out of the car, is pushing her body forward, but someone is grabbing her arm, catching her before she drops to the pavement.

“Whoa, what’s the matter with her?”

“Lydia, you need to get a hold of yourself,” Mike says to her, taking her other arm in a vise-like grip. “This is not the place for your bullshit hysterics. Now, pull yourself together and stand up straight.”

As soon as he lays down the command, Lydia feels the snap in her spine and she rears back, determined not to show her fear any more. They have a deal set in place, they need her. But she’s still having some issues walking in her heels and Jesse’s fingers curl tighter around her arm, a hand now pressing to her back to hold her up.

“Do you think we should leave her like this? She doesn’t look too good. What if she crashes her car into someone?”

Nerves still reeling, Lydia considers the kid’s concern a distinct possibility. The morning after Mike had almost killed her in her own home, she’d called in sick for the first time in years. Spent the entire day in bed, feeling like she was plastered there by some epoxy-like coating, her sweat drenching the sheets as images of the macabre continued to assail her, visions of her face blasted apart, unrecognizable.

There’s the jingle of keys and then they’re coming straight at her, Jesse nimbly catching them in his fist as his arm shoots out.

“Get her in her car. You’re going to escort our fair maiden home, Jesse, to make sure she gets there in one piece. We won’t be too far behind. There’s one more place I need to go by before we make our flight. Lydia? Think you can give your driver directions or do I need to put it into GPS?”

“I –I need to get home,” she reiterates. “My daughter and her nanny will be waiting. Her recital is tonight and we need to – I can tell –I – ”

“Breathe, Lydia.”

She stops talking and Jesse starts to walk her to her Mercedes, still holding on to her like she’s an old woman. “I can figure it out,” Jesse says to the others. “Hey, yo, don’t make any decisions without me,” he adds in warning. “We need to have, like, a meeting about this, okay?”

“Thank you, Jesse,” the chemist says. “We’ll take that under advisement.”

She doesn’t trust White, but she knows she can use him, can manipulate him, even. There’s an uneasy alliance afoot between him and Mike, she can sense it in their barely controlled squabbling during the train discussion. She saw the gleam in the man’s eye when she talked about Mike’s nine guys, the tick-tick-tick of his brain loud enough for her to hear. But right now, she needs to get home.

Jesse takes her keys and unlocks the car door, holds it open for her like a perfect gentleman. “After you,” he says chivalrously as he waves a hand at the passenger seat.

 

*

 

They’re on the highway this time, and they’ve finally come up against Houston’s rush hour crawl, but the delay gives Lydia time to think her offer over as she fades off into the familiar hum of her car. Her driver clears his throat and it blurs into the rev of motors and blaring horns.

“So, how long were you working for Gus?”

The question comes out of nowhere after a long bout of silence and Lydia glances up sharply, coming out of her trance.

“Excuse me?” Her tone is flinty, defiant, still shrill with the puffed up courage that she can only lay claim to in the face of desperation.

“Fring? How long were you his inside man? I mean, that was you, right? That took care of all the chemical shipments? I used to receive all the barrels at the lab.”

“What does it matter?” she snaps. She thinks about the deal she’s gotten herself into again, the details required for such a move starting to formulate in her head and a nagging worry surfacing which says they won’t be able to pull it off, that they might just get caught and drag her into more of this mess.

“Hey, I’m just making conversation,” she hears from the driver’s seat as she nibbles on her nail, the skyscrapers of the city getting smaller in her side view mirror as they coast across the highway.

“Fring had been planning for that lab for years,” she says aloud, recalling the first time he showed her the blueprints. “It wasn’t until I came on board that he could even consider distribution for such a large network.” Her pride blooms in her chest and she sees Gus’s face again, taking her by the shoulders and telling her he believed in her in that deep baritone. Lydia squeezes her hands together in her lap and they’re noticeably less shaky, the thick ball of fear dissipating to mist as she lets out a deep breath.

“Yeah, dude had it all down to a science,” Jesse comments. “Sometimes I’d forget we were making meth, it all seemed so fucking official. Just another job, punching a time clock like every other stiff out there.”

“That’s what kept us protected,” she notes. “Fring knew how to run a business with the utmost precision, it didn’t matter what he was selling. But he also knew how to spot talent and to entrust his people to come up with the best solutions. The man was … he was brilliant, really.” And it is only in this statement that Lydia feels a puncture of grief in her heart for the mentor that she’s lost. But Jaime had trusted Fring, thought the man was a genius, too, and look where it had gotten him. Her thoughts suddenly veer to the cartels when she realizes she has a source of information sitting right next to her.

“And so how often did you … work with him?” she asks carefully.

“Not a lot,” he answers, mouth downturned. “He … like, he had me over to his house for dinner, but … that was just to get me to go to Mexico with them. To save his ass with the Cartel. Of course, he didn’t tell me what we were really going there for.”

“Really?” Lydia’s brain is whirring now, as she stares at this kid who can’t be more than twenty-five, but who Gus apparently trusted enough to help him stage a siege of epic proportions. “So, you were there? When it happened?”

“Yeah,” he says shakily, his expression spooked. “It was pretty fucked up. Guys started dropping like flies –”

She holds up a hand to stop him. “I don’t want to hear the details,” she says in a rush, not wanting to picture the scene. “Those men were monsters. Do you have any idea what they do to people over there in their _gang_ wars? Cutting off heads, bodies mutilated and hanging all over the city, and-and-it’s all – it’s just – I mean, I don’t need to hear about that.” She points towards the window, reaching over into his line of vision. “You want to get all the way into the left lane and get on this ramp.”

“Well, whatever. It’s done, now. Ol’ Gus went out with a bang. For like, real, yo.”

She studies Jesse’s profile, the inside of the car getting darker as light fades from the sky, the pinks and auburns settling into a deep rust. “Do you know who did it?”

His eyes pop wide. “What?”

“Who killed Fring? They’re saying the cartel did it as payback, and this Salamanca guy obviously had ties to Juárez. But … were they really behind it?”

He licks his lips nervously. “Um, I don’t know, I guess. What did Mike tell you?”

“Mike tells me very little,” she replies coolly, watching him shift in his seat, reaching for a pack of cigarettes in his back pocket. He slides one out of the pack one-handed and grips the end of it with his teeth, pulling it free from its case.

“Mind if I smoke?” he asks, already holding a lighter and tipping his head to the flame.

“Open a window, please. I don’t want the smell in the car. My daughter will notice it.” He fiddles with the buttons on the armrest at his side until he finds the right one, the window slowly descending as the rush of wind blasts its way inside. “Not that much,” she says when her hair is whipped free from its sleek and tidy bun. “Just a crack.” She slicks back the hair that’s escaped.

It goes quiet again as he adjusts the window and its air circulation to just the right temperament, the wind outside becoming the background hum of an airplane. “So … you work for the master chemist, then? The gentleman I spoke with?”

“We’re partners,” the kid is quick to correct. “It’s our operation. We brought in Mike to handle distribution, and ‘cause, we were having trouble finding methylamine for our precursor. But yeah, me and Mr. White were both doing the cook for Gus until shit hit the fan.”

“And what’s your plan going to be, then? If you somehow manage to accomplish this train heist and get your methylamine … what happens then? Who are you supplying?” One of her last conversations with Fring springs to mind, his waning interest when she informed him of a possible Czech connection to a new market doing little to dampen her enthusiasm.

“What do you care? You’ll get your money for the information, don’t worry.” He exhales a plume of smoke and worries his bottom lip with his teeth. “You, uh … you sure there’s only two men in the crew?”

“Of course, I’m sure. I told you, it’s my job to know these things. This is still a huge risk on my part, you understand. It doesn’t sound like Mike has a lot of faith that you can even pull this off.”

“No,” he sighs. “It doesn’t.”

“But if anything goes wrong, chances are likely I’ll be implicated. So you need to make sure that doesn’t happen. Get off at this exit,” she says, pointing to the upcoming sign. He puts on his blinker and checks over his shoulder before changing lanes but she can see he’s still thinking, still chewing on his lip as his cigarette languishes in the ashtray.

“What if they didn’t know?” he suddenly asks.

“Didn’t know what? Who are we talking about?”

“The engineer and the conductor. What if they didn’t know the train got robbed? If we got our methylamine and no one was the wiser?”

“And how do you propose to do that?”

“I don’t know,” he sighs again. “I’m working on it.”

She directs him as they get off of the highway, getting him on to the right street, and they settle into a comfortable silence, her nerves no longer feeling so frayed. They drive past the golf course, the streets turning residential, before Jesse makes another attempt at conversation. It’s dark outside and he peers at the houses growing in size the further they drive along.

“Rodarte-Quayle, huh? That’s a fancy name. Are you, like, from money, or something? What, you were some trust fund baby who decided she needed more green than what the straight life was willing to offer?”

“Hardly,” she huffs. “Quayle is my maiden name. Rodarte is my husband’s. _Was_ my husband’s name.”

“Ah,” he says, his face brightening. “So, you’re like a feminist drug dealer. What happened to your husband?”

She sees Gus’s face again. _I’m so sorry, Lydia. These animals will pay for what they have done._

“He was killed,” she says, her throat feeling tight. “Murdered.”

“Oh.” He turns a corner as she mutely points to the right street. “Sorry. That’s fucked up.” He glances at her and she can see from his concern that he’s being genuine. “Was it … was Gus behind it?”

“These cartels … they’re barbarians, all of them, with their savage ideas of how to run a business. His body was never found, of course. God only knows where they buried him. But I knew he was dead, after … after the third day, I felt it. Fring tracked the men responsible down, eventually, but … my daughter, she’ll never know what happened to her father. I can’t ever tell her the truth.” She turns to Jesse and holds his gaze, her eyes widening as she tries to convey her helplessness. “I’m all she has left, you understand? I can’t have _Mike_ threatening my life every time something goes wrong. He almost shot me over someone else’s mistake. Do you have any idea how stressful that can be to live with?”

Jesse looks back to the road ahead, his eyes sparkling as his expression turns guilty. “Um, yeah,” he rasps, reaching for his cigarette again. His hands shake as he sucks in its smoke. “I can take a guess.”

“So, perhaps you could –” She lets the request hang between them as she raises an eyebrow. “I mean, a woman needs some protection in this business, am I right? And currently, every man who was watching my back is now dead. I need to take care of my child without worrying that I’m going to get abducted every other day and taken to some horrible dilapidated building that’s about to come crashing down on my head while a pistol is being waved in my face.”

“It was a metal fabrication warehouse and it wasn’t _dilapidated,_ ” he insists. “And no one was waving a gun at anyone. Just chill out and stop getting yourself worked up again. Jesus, no wonder you put a hit out on Mike if you’re gonna get this freaked out all the time.”

She thinks about going down the same thread with Jesse that she did with Walter, pointing out that they all stand to lose if just one of those men talks, but she gets the sense that it’s the wrong tactic, that Jesse responds better to emotional pledges over practicalities.

“Well, it looks like your little group has some problems,” she probes. “I sensed some tension between your partners.” She puts her hand out to touch Jesse’s arm. “I’m just saying, I don’t want to get caught in the middle of that. My daughter is my first priority, here. I’m going to do whatever I can to protect her. And first and foremost, that means keeping her mother alive.”

“So what do you want me to do about it?” he asks blatantly, with a shrug of his shoulders.

Lydia runs her hand down to his wrist and takes hold of it, where the swirled stamp of a tattoo creeps up his arm. Jesse flicks his eyes to where she grasps him with a vein of distrust. “I also get the feeling that Mike respects you,” she says softly. “That he listens to you.” She stares at his mouth, focuses on the way it’s slightly open, hears his breaths coming quickly. She’ll do what she has to in order to keep her and Kiira safe. “If it wasn’t for your objections, Mike would have handled this very differently. I’ve known him a long time. He’s smart, but he’s also quick to make assumptions. I could use an advocate if we’re all going to be working together.”

He glances at her sharply then turns his gaze back to the street, licking his lips again. She points to his left.

“Up here. It’s on the right, about four buildings down.”

When they pull up to the driveway of her condo, Jesse makes a low whistle. “Holy shit, this is yours? You live in, like, a mansion. Figured you’d be like Gus, keeping it on the downlow.”

“It’s just the top floor. I get paid what I’m worth at my job,” she tells him through a clench of teeth. “I’m extremely important to the company, and their holdings are global. I have my hands in every division.” She opens the car door before holding her hand out for the keys. “I’ll have the manifest in a few days, so you’d better make sure your plan works.”

Jesse’s checking his phone. “Hey, uh, they’re like fifteen minutes away still. Think I can come in and use your john?”

Lydia barks out a laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous. I can’t have you in there. I mean, look at you, how am I supposed to explain the two of us being together?”

 

*

 

“Uh, Delores, this is my … mechanic. I’m having some engine problems with the Mercedes and he had to give me a jump and a lift home. He just needs to use the restroom. Can you show him the way, please?”

“Yes, Miss Lydia.”

Delores smiles to an uncomfortable Jesse and takes him through the remainder of the kitchen in the direction of the bathroom. Lydia follows them into the living room, watching him gawk at the artwork on the walls as he shuffles behind Delores, twisting his head left and right to take in the surroundings. As soon as they’re out of sight, Lydia releases another long breath, feeling light-headed, and the stress of the afternoon drains from her like the blood seeping from a severed artery. She kicks off her heels and pads over to the bar by the window to pour herself some brandy, the bottoms of her feet enjoying the cool tiles of the floor through her pantyhose. She takes a sip, relishing the heat that blooms in her chest as she sets the decanter down. Rummaging a few fingers through a pile of mail near her desk, Lydia takes another sip. Not even a minute’s gone by when she hears her daughter talking excitedly with someone, their voices coming from the hall. Alarmed, she rushes towards Kiira’s bedroom.

“And so then we turn around like this, and then we have to jump up” – Lydia hears a thump – “like this, and we spin around again with our arms like this, like we have wings.”

“Wow. That’s pretty sweet. Are you sure you’re not a fairy, though, ‘cause I was totally convinced you were a fairy. Like, aren’t you supposed to grant me three wishes or something?”

Kiira giggles joyfully. “ _No,_ I’m a ballerina. That’s silly. I don’t know how to grant wishes.”

“I bet you could, if you really wanted to.”

“What’s going on?” Lydia interrupts, her tone panicked when she sees her daughter already in her costume, a wand with glittering strips at its tip clutched in her fingers. Jesse turns to her and his smile drops, his features hardening at what he sees on her face.

“Uh, we’re just talking,” he says as Kiira breathlessly chimes in.

“I was showing Jesse how our dance goes, Mummy. He wants me to be a fairy. Is he going to come with us?”

“No! I mean, of course not, sweetheart. He was just fixing Mommy’s car. Now let Delores finish getting you ready. We need to leave in another hour.”

Kiira gives Jesse a little wave. “Bye, Jesse.”

“Hey, knock ‘em dead at your recital, okay? Or, wait, what are you supposed to say? Like, break a leg or something? But don’t, like, really. Be careful up there.”

Kiira giggles again and he smiles at her with a wave of his own. He makes his way to the other end of the hall where Lydia waits, her toes curling into the hallway rug as he draws near.

“I thought you needed the bathroom.”

“Never mind. I don’t want to mess anything up in your place. They’re almost here, anyway. I can hold it.”

“What I said to you, about Mike … I hope you’ll take that under consideration. I only want what’s best for my daughter. We can help each other.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She nods her head to her right and draws him back into the living room.

“I have an interested party. In the Czech Republic,” she begins in a low whisper. “They would love our product, _your_ product, if you and your partner are willing to talk real business. The demand is huge over there. Of course, this all depends on whether or not you can get what you need, and if you can even get away with it, but I’m just saying here – once you’re up and running, I have this highly profitable market waiting – waiting for _you –_ and a desire to grow your business. These people will pay whatever we ask to obtain the quality you produced for Fring. They’ve got nothing like it. Just think about it.”

She curls her fingers around his wrist again, holding him tight.

“But only I can put this deal together, you understand? Distribution would have to run through my end. You still need me.”

Jesse studies her carefully before withdrawing his arm from her grip. “Yeah, I got it.”

He turns to stare out at the view through her windows, the lights of the city below a splendid panorama of twinkling white and gold, a counterpoint to the giant canvas of exploded color at their backs.

“I guess I could see wanting to protect all this.” He takes in her expression with a shrug. “Just don’t do anything stupid. Mike will leave you alone if you keep to your word, alright? I’ll make sure of it.” He glances behind him. “No one’s gonna hurt your daughter.”

 

*

 

“Todd? Who is this?”

But it’s not Todd and she hears _his_ voice instead and there’s screaming behind him in the background. Walt’s calm tone belies the chaos she can hear over the phone, as someone screeches like they’re in the throes of a death struggle.

“How are you feeling? Kind of under the weather? Like you’ve got the flu?”

It’s been a whole day of this thing, everything she’s tried having little effect. The oscillococcinum, the humidifier, none of it has worked and now she’s got a chill running down her back to match her fever.

“Oh my God.”

“Goodbye, Lydia.”

When she drops the phone, her first thought is to call an ambulance. What does she know about ricin? Nothing, really, other than it’s lethal the longer it’s unattended. But she can’t go to a hospital. Admitting what’s killing her is an admission of guilt. She’s followed the case, already been questioned several times about the men that Fring had employed and Walter had killed. She’ll go to jail. Whatever Walter has done, they’ll find him soon enough and she’ll have nothing to trade, nothing to keep her out of a sentence.

She picks up the phone again and thinks of Jaime’s family back in Columbia, imagines what will happen to her daughter after Lydia succumbs to this miserable fate. But she doesn’t want Kiira in their clutches and never has, they did enough to their son. A conversation plays in her head, of Jaime informing Gus of a doctor whose services could be kept on the payroll, no questions asked. As far as she knows, Gus was still using him – certainly he would have had need for him after that madness in Juárez.

Lydia drags her feeble body to her desk, spends a few hours going through old papers of her dead husband’s files until she finds it.

“Barry? Barry, this is Lydia Rodarte-Quayle. Do you remember me? You knew my husband.”

Yes, he remembers, yes, he knows who she is. She closes her eyes and wills her recovery to happen. It’s within her grasp. Her daughter won’t be left alone.

“ _Please._ I need your help.”

 

 


	2. Pt. II

 

 

Lydia looks out over the Vltava River, the wind catching her scarf and flapping it against her face as she tucks a loosened strand of hair behind an ear. As she leans over the balustrade, wrapping her coat closer around her, she stares across the dark and choppy water to the castle posed against the city’s skyline, the old architecture giving her a sense of history that she often pined for in the sleek, modern habitats of Houston’s oil rich and dot com babies. They’re in the thick of winter, snow dusting the tops of the towers on either side of her, and her face is almost numb from the cold, but Lydia is alive and that’s all that matters, that’s all she can feel coursing through her veins, the blood rushing in her ears like water let loose from a dam, a scream that shouts over and over that she’s alive, she’s breathing, she’s here.

The sky purples as night draws near when Lydia finally moves, pushing herself from the railing with the cold burrowed into her bones. But she doesn’t mind it. She’s got ice in her spine. She strolls toward the west bank over cobbled stones, past the towers and the row of statues, making her way to the Malá Strana part of the city where her little apartment awaits. Lydia wants to warm up with a drink first, and her feet trod through the snow until they reach the pub she’s been frequenting since she got here, a quaint little dive a few streets away from St. Nicholas Church. It’s buried in Malostranské Square, right at the foot of the castle, and while it’s a haven for the tourists, it’s still far enough removed from the nightlife in New Town that she feels safe in its gritty confines, the interior dark and smoky, faces huddled close to each other in conversation while she relishes her anonymity. No one thinks to notice her, the tavern’s patrons too full of good cheer having been enchanted by the city’s charm all day, and Lydia is fine with that, taking a corner booth to blend in with the shadows and the baroque squalor of the place. She slips off her coat and already the waitress is bustling over, the woman instantly recognizing her as one of her new regulars.

“Pivo?” she asks, and Lydia nods, taking a glance at the menu although she’s well aware there are no gluten-free options at this establishment. But Lydia is less concerned with healthier alternatives these days, knowing that her insistence on a sugar substitute almost got her killed.

“Er, _zelňačka?“_ Lydia holds up a finger. “One bowl. _Prosím_.”

It’s maddening that she hasn’t been able to master Czech yet, but the Slavic languages so far have eluded her, plus it’s only been a few months immersion. She tries not to beat herself up about it. She’s got all the time in the world to learn. Although she suspects Kiira is probably doing a lot better at it. Lydia is counting the days until she can see her daughter again, but knowing she’s safe where she is gives Lydia enough comfort to get through weeks on end without seeing her little girl.

In lieu of a reunion, she manages to fill up the hours with as much distraction as possible. She’s been spending the last four days on a museum crawl and today’s agenda consisted solely of Mucha’s work and photographs, a particular delight. She’s debating whether tomorrow should be reserved for the Kampa or the DOX when a sudden giddy feeling hits her, and Lydia takes a moment to bask in the glorious freedom of it all.

The waitress strides back from the bar with her Pilsner a moment later. Lydia’s never been much of a beer drinker, but this is her new life, a negative print to all that’s come before. She’s no longer in the real world, she’s in a pseudo-fairy tale, surrounded by castles and saintly statues and astronomical clocks. She can make this life anything she wants.

When the soup comes, Lydia smiles at the woman as she thanks her. She can be pleasant. There’s a lift from her shoulders when the waitress smiles back and Lydia revels in the weightlessness for as long as it will last this time. She has some protection: guardian angels in the shadows wearing snakeskin suits and Glasgow smiles. Whatever’s happening in the States is of no consequence now.

It’s when the waitress walks away that Lydia sees him, just as she’s lifting her spoon for a first taste. He’s sitting at the bar, his body hunched towards the front, but his head whipped around so that he’s staring right at her.

Her breath catches while the spoon starts to quiver in her hand, and Lydia freezes up as a dozen grisly images begin to flood her mind’s eye. In that split second, she tries to convince herself that it’s not him, that she’s just seeing things again, like that first week she arrived here, apparitions of Todd springing up around the city watching her everywhere she went with that soulless, dull-eyed gaze.

But he hasn’t looked away yet, his expression moving from outright shock to a deep suspicion, an eyebrow arched so high it’s ludicrous, like a caterpillar poised to inch its way across his face.

When he finally stands up, the feeling in Lydia’s body rushes back and her brain is shooting sparks as her lack of options blast their way into consciousness. She can’t run, she can’t scream – she needs to be invisible in this place or else the spell is broken, her enchantments falling away.

He’s walking to her table now, and Lydia grabs her sweating glass to take a gulp, her eyes roving around the room hoping to catch some inspiration. When he sits down at her booth, she looks away, searching for her waitress like she’s simply being gracious, throwing an arm up and snapping fingers to catch some attention. I’ll just order another _pivo_ for my friend here who looks like he’s just stepped out of a gulag. No need for alarm.

The waitress comes back over and Lydia watches him quail at the sight of her, his shoulders rearing back while he slinks into the bloody red of the seat’s upholstered backrest. Lydia rushes to speaks first, before he can do anything stupid.

“Jimmy? It’s so wild to see you here. I can’t even believe this. _What_ are the odds? Uh,” – she glances at the waitress’s name tag – “Tereza. Can I get another drink for, um –” Lydia looks her visitor in the face for the first time, his boyishness all but gone and the man that’s left looking old beyond his years. “What are you drinking? Do you want something to eat?” He looks sickly, she notices immediately, his leather jacket snug around skin and bones, sporting hollow cheeks under thick, abraded scars.

“No, I’m good,” he says in a familiar deep rasp. “I’ve got a beer coming.”

Lydia wants to keep Tereza here for another minute, an opportunity for the woman to take a good look at the man that’s invaded her booth. Look at him, Lydia hums in her head. Take note of every mark on him.

“Mm, _dva_ ,” she says, holding up two fingers this time before tapping at her glass. Another excuse to bring her back, to drag this out.

Tereza leaves again and now he’s got her full attention, her cabbage soup all but forgotten.

“Are you here to finish off the job your partner failed at?” she says through her teeth, her mouth set in a rictus of a smile. She might as well get straight to the point. He doesn’t look like much of an assassin, but that means nothing to her as Lydia flashes on Kiira in her new home, ensconced by high walls and guarded gates, a hundred little girls keeping her company. Kiira expects to see her next week and Lydia has to make sure she’ll be there, no matter what. She went through too much to get here. It can’t end like this.

“Was it you?” he responds, leaning forward to rest his arms on the table. “Did you send them to find me?”

He speaks in a low whisper but his entire frame is lit with fear, a dangerous shine emanating from him like he could set the pub ablaze with one shout. The hair has grown in, which makes her think of her last look at Walter. This one is just as unkempt and just as desperate. But unlike that last meeting, Lydia has no idea what he’s talking about.

“Send who? I don’t know what that means.” She grips the sides of her Pilsner glass and takes a long sip like if she can just pretend this is all normal, the outcome will be similarly prosaic. “You need to explain why you’re here,” she says again, her gaze now falling to his hands pressed to the table. They’re rough and dirty and she sees another scar is lashed across the back of his left one. He nervously scratches at it, as if he can feel her eyes on it, and his leather jacket slides back far enough that she sees the tattoo on his right, the black scorpion identifying its owner as sure as a set of dental records.

“Your _contact,_ ” he hisses back. “Your little crime family that Jack and his goons were supplying. How did they know where to find me unless you sent them?”

Now she’s confused. Her negotiations never included Pinkman. She'd had no clue that he’d even been alive after the melee at Welker’s compound.

“I didn’t know where you were, if you even survived. How could I have sent them?” The roundabout questions are annoying her.  “Look, are you here to kill me or not?”

He seems taken aback by her candor, and in that moment, in the clear surprise on his face, Lydia breathes a sigh of relief. Maybe she can cheat death once more. The thought gives her a surge of adrenaline, this thread of invincibility wrapping around muscle and bone like creeping silver, creating her armor. Lydia’s a survivor; her body sings it back to her in a thundering chorus.

“Why would I do that?” he growls back. “I’m done with all that. I thought I was out of that life, for good. But now they got me here and I just need to know that when I’m finished with them, that it’s done, that I ain’t gonna end up some slave again. I – can’t let that happen. I’d rather eat a bullet.”

The more Jesse talks the more questions there are running around in her head. Suddenly a whirlpool has opened, and thoughts spin around dizzyingly, as she rifles through every headline she’s read, every internet story she’s accessed on the entire Heisenberg drama.

“How on earth did they get you out of the country? Are you … are you _working_ with them?” She made her deal with them and they keep their eyes on her, but their inquiries into Todd’s plight come back to her. They were looking for their cook.

The waitress is back at her elbow, two more beers on her tray, and they both stop talking, make a pathetic attempt to look chummy, barely keeping up the charade as they wait for Tereza to leave them alone.

“Look, this isn’t really the place to talk. I know somewhere we can go, a little more private.”

“Absolutely not.” She doesn’t want private, thank you very much. Public is just fine. “I’m not stupid. You think I’m just going to believe everything you say? I don’t even know how you –” She pitches her voice low once more. “I don’t even know how you got away from there. I thought White killed everyone.”

Something dark flickers in his eyes but then the tight lines in his face smooth out and he’s shaking his head. “Not everyone. I just barely escaped before the – ” He’s looking around the pub again. “You really want to do this here? I got a place not that far away. I’m not gonna do anything. Seriously. You’re in the same boat as me. All I want is information.”

“Tomorrow. On the Charles Bridge. Meet me there at one o’clock, by the statue of St. John of Nepomuk.”

He gives her a look of utter loss.

“It’s the one with the gold halo, it’s got five stars. He’s holding a golden fern in his hand. I’ll be right under it.”

She slides the bowl of soup towards him as she fishes for money in her purse. “Here, eat this. You look like you could use it.”

Lydia stands up and she feels sure of herself again, sees an opportunity for mutual gain. She throws some Euro bills on the table.

“Enjoy your beer,” she tells him before walking back out into the cold.

 

*

 

He’s there waiting for her, and she’s made sure to arrive ten minutes early. It throws her for a moment but she’s had the night to ruminate, poring over every strategy available to her. Jesse needs to be neutralized, and she remembers that chat in her car in what feels like eons ago. He’s not Todd. He’s certainly not Walt. He’s not even Mike. There’s a noticeable lack of ruthlessness that she can use, and his insistence to her back then that Kiira would remain safe reminds her that he’s got a weak spot.

The sun is out today and it spreads its warmth over them both as they stand under a saint known for being tossed into the Vltava River. He somehow looks worse in the daylight and Lydia wonders what happened to him, wonders not for the first time what Todd actually meant by ‘he’s with us now’.

“I’m pretty sure I was followed,” he tells her straight off, still leaning against the balustrade as he scans the water and the cloudless sky. “Your friends have been keeping tabs on me since they brought me here.”

Lydia stations herself a few feet away, posed in the same manner as Jesse, avoiding any eye contact as she speaks out of the side of her mouth.

“It’s me they’re watching,” she says. “I have … some protection here. They never asked me about you, by the way, just wanted a confirmation that Welker’s cook was dead. I didn’t have any real proof that you were alive, at that point. But currently, it’s in their best interest to keep me safe. I’ve got a few insurance plans that have me covered.”

“Well, that’s great for you, but I need to know I’m not gonna get played here. Like, it was handy that they could get me across the border when I’ve got FBI and DEA itching to get up my ass, but now I’m here and everything they’re saying sounds a little too good to be true, you know? I need to understand who I’m dealing with, here. Like, can I trust them to keep their word?”

“What are they offering?” She’s curious now. The men she deals with aren’t exactly Fring, but there’s a certain honor in how they conduct their business.

“A payout. A big one. I just need to show them the formula. Then they’re gonna let me walk, so they say. But I need an insurance plan of my own.”

She forgets herself for a moment and turns to face him, a gust of wind slapping her cheek and her long hair flailing around her like tentacles.

“Don’t trust anyone."

He balks. "Yeah, that's not a problem, don't worry."

"I'm serious. Not even me. You make sure the money’s been transferred over to you before you show them anything. Suggest a contract. They keep you out of police custody, and you’re willing to come back every quarter and help them broaden their market.”

“I told you, I want _out,”_ he seethes. “I need the money, but then I’m fucking out of here. I’m going someplace where they speak English and I’m gonna do something else, I don’t care what. I don’t even want to _look_ at meth anymore.”

“Look, I don’t know what you want from me,” she snaps back. “I’m concerned with my own security and my daughter’s safety. Beyond that, there’s nothing you have to trade that I’m interested in. You’ll have to figure things out yourself. As far as I’ve been able to find out, the police back home don’t even know my part in it all. They have a phone record, possibly. But it seems to me that we’re both locked into a commitment to each other – one of mutually assured destruction. Either one of us can give the other up, but the path to our way out of this is to keep the other out of jail. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“So, that’s it? You make it out scot-free and you can’t even give me some intel? Alls I want to know is can I reason with these guys?”

Lydia’s outrage is upon her in an instant. “Scot-free? I was at death’s door, for God’s sake, thanks to your asshole partner. It was only luck that kept me breathing. White had to gloat over his sneaky little deception, and his chosen method of poison was thankfully slow-acting enough to buy me a sliver of time to get help.”

His expression once again reflects his shock.

“What? Are you telling me you didn’t know all this? Weren’t you there when he shot everyone up? I mean, he had Todd’s phone.”

There’s a shiver that runs up Jesse’s back as he shuts his eyes, hunching his shoulders in, and Lydia thinks it has nothing to do with the biting wind coming off the top of the river.

“I was a little busy,” is all he’ll tell her. “I didn’t know he did that.” He snorts out an ugly laugh. “Figures. That fucker had to find some use for it.” But his features slide into a sickly grimace.

“These men, they have to know that as soon as the product makes a comeback, eyes across the pond are going to question it. You need to make sure they understand you have more worth alive then dead. Unless you’re willing to kill them all yourself, you’ll never be able to just walk away. Thank your lucky stars that they found you and that you have a means to profit off of this. You’re the only one left that can produce what they all want. You’ve literally got all of the leverage here. I don’t really see what the problem is.”

He shakes his head. “That is so messed up.”

But Lydia is suddenly wondering if there’s another angle to this, if she can siphon off some of that payout Jesse has coming his way.

“Well, welcome to Prague,” she says with disdain. “You know where to find me if you have any more questions.” She turns to face him one last time. “Talk to Martin. He’s the one that will see the most value in what you can offer.”

She turns away from him and strides confidently towards the east end, deciding a visit to the clock tower for the day is just what she needs, already hearing the chimes gonging in her head.

 

*

 

Lydia stays away from the pub for several days, but the night she goes back he’s waiting for her again. He’s sitting in her booth so there’s no mistaking why he’s here. She bustles to the bar instead, seating herself on a stool as she waves over the bartender. He stays where he is, but they watch each other warily over the next hour, Lydia carefully slurping at her soup with her back to him, Jesse slinging back another shot glass every time she casually glances over her shoulder to see what he’s doing.

After she’s eaten, she takes her time savoring her _svařák_ , a mulled wine that heats her up as it burns its way down her throat, the cinnamon making her wrinkle her nose. The locals might live on their liquid bread, but Lydia is already tired of beer. She’s restless, wondering if this is all she can hope for. She can’t allow herself to grow complacent, and Pinkman’s appearance is her wake up call.

She looks behind her again and he’s still there, still watching her with piercing blue eyes that hold way too much in those depths, clouded with the taint of a violent past. Lydia makes her decision and stands up, looking back at him once more before slipping on her coat and leaving enough money to pay for her bar tab. She doesn’t head towards the front door, but marches to the back, past the kitchen and the restrooms, until she finds the exit sign leading her to the way out. She gasps from the cold as soon as she steps outside, but she doesn’t take off, choosing instead to press herself into the dark square of the brick wall, the security lights on the other side of the trash bin leaving a sphere of light like a stage set for an entrance.

He’s followed her, just as she knew he would. When he comes across her, he’s got that perplexed look on his face, a signature, she starts to think, and she puts out her hand to catch him by the wrist, roping him in slowly like he’s a boat she’s dragging to shore. He’s confused up until the moment she slips a hand behind his neck and pulls him down for a kiss, and it’s only after their lips touch that he seems to snap to attention, and then suddenly his body is in a fit of spasms and desperate clutches, and their breaths get heavier, the pair of them, the plumes of white that leave their mouths gobbled up quickly as his hands grope at the skirt under her coat. She lets him slide into her, and at first it’s a shock, like diving into icy water, but this is the new Lydia, this is the Lydia who’s cheated death twice now. He’s rutting against her, a whine in his throat like a panicked dog, and Lydia feels like she’s watching it from afar, she’s taking notes on the setting, the way his fingers are digging into her hips, his mouth now mashed to her shoulder as he struggles to rip away one side of her coat.

She slides her hands under his jacket, coaxing him, and there’s a power in her fingers, electricity running through them as they run over his back. She could gut him out here and no one would know. Leave him on the pavement by the garbage gasping his last breath, their connection severed forever. The only weapon she has is in her purse, but she strokes hands over his bottom as his thrusts become more urgent, feeling for anything he might have tucked in his pockets, in the back of his waistband. There’s nothing there but she slips fingers under his shirt, feels knots and worms across his flesh instead, the bumps a topographical map of his treatment under Welker. Todd invades her thoughts once again and she shivers with Jesse as he empties into her, fighting a strangled cry while he holds on to her like she’s all he’s got, the only thing to keep him afloat.

 

*

 

It’s been a day of the Schiele exhibit at the National Gallery and Lydia is in a contemplative mood as she arrives at her building, the melted snow leaving puddles in the streets. He’s waiting at the top of the stairs that descend to her apartment, a fraction of space that could have fit into the closet of her former home. She barely has room for her shoes, though she’d had to toss over thirty pairs of them out before they’d left, Lydia hurriedly packing for her and Kiira while barely able to stand at the time, the ricin only just eked out of her system.

She’s not surprised to see him, but it still feels like a threat, that he knows where she lives, has obviously been following her since that last encounter at the pub.

“It’s not safe for you here,” she says as she passes him, stomping her way down to her door. “We shouldn’t be seen together. I told you I have eyes on me practically all the time.”

“And I told you it’s the same with me. They probably know already. I thought you said they were protecting you?”

She’s not inclined to explain her tenuous standing with Slavic gangsters, but she leaves the door open as she steps into her living room. Chasing him away won’t change anything.

There’s not much to her place, but it’s warm enough and quiet enough that she can find some respite in the coziness of two rooms and a hotplate. Jesse casts his gaze over the room with a clinical air, noticing the easel in the corner where her latest watercolour sits half-done. When his eyes come back to rest on her, there’s something knowing in them, as if he’s got her figured out.

“Where’s Kiira?” he asks, and now Lydia does widen her eyes, surprised that he’s remembered her name.

“She’s safe. Away from here.” The school is a fortress for her daughter, but more importantly, she gets to live in a normal environment and make normal friends.

Lydia crosses her arms over her chest as she sizes Jesse up, wondering why he’s clinging to her like dew, like mold, like he’s lost in this place and can’t find his way out.

“Why are you even here? What do you want from me?” she asks him again.

He gawks at her for a moment and his eyes are shining, his misery blooming in his face like a stain that will never come out.

“I don’t know where else to go.”

“You make this deal with my contact and you do it right, you can go anywhere in the world you want,” she says, a note of impatience striking her voice.

Jesse sighs, and it’s long and weary, filled with the echo of loss. He cranes his neck back as he scans her ceiling. “That doesn’t mean anything. Where am I supposed to even start?”

Lydia has no answer to that. She’s trying to figure it out for herself. She shrugs her shoulders. “I don’t know. Do you want some tea?”

 

*

 

She lets him stay for the night. He won’t hurt her, she knows this as sure as she knows that Mike is dead. She doesn’t think she’ll hurt him, either. Not right now. He might still prove to be useful. Lydia feels his weight on her and it’s got its own sort of comfort, another body moving with hers reminding her that she’s alive, she’s here, she’s breathing. She coos to him like she would a child, cradling his head as he presses his face to her chest, sobs breaking from him as they rock together. There are more scars littered across the inches of his back, on his shoulders, his chest, dug into a hip.

While she’d never had the notion that Todd had somehow swayed Pinkman to their side, knew on some level that he was more likely imprisoned than partnering with Welker against White, it is still a shock to feel the evidence with her own hands. Jesse’s body is a testament to all that she’s managed to escape – the hungry, but hapless stares from Todd forever burned into her mind, the proof of what he’d been capable of giving her just one more reason to be thankful for this new life. The old Lydia perished in that hospital tent, but this latest incarnation is steely and strong, lets strange men into her bed, is no longer afraid to see. She’ll bathe under a shower of blood if she has to.

 

*

 

In the morning, she awakes to find herself alone. Lydia listens to her apartment, but hears no sign of him, only the thuds and scrapes from the floor above. She wonders where she’ll go today. It’s only one more week before she gets to see Kiira, gets to spend an afternoon smiling and watching her daughter run around the lake. She wishes she could bring her to the city, wishes they could spend a day on the Charles Bridge reciting the names of the saints, while watching the artists scribble their inspirations across small canvases they’ll sell to the tourists. But it’s better this way.

She hasn’t touched the money she’s got socked away in a Zurich account since they left the States. There can’t be any activity while the investigation is ongoing. But her thoughts move back to Jesse and what they want him to do. There’s money to be made here, he just can’t seem to see it.

When she gets up, she glances to the high little window that keeps her place from feeling like a basement. The sun is out again, but she sees no sign of Pinkman on her steps. Her thoughts flit over an itinerary for the day. Maybe she’ll look through the paper and see what kind of films are playing. Maybe something that her visitor would enjoy.

Lydia dresses breezily as she stacks on the layers, eager to get to the bistro around the corner for her morning cup of coffee. She’s all but given up the tea.

Perhaps what she needs is another _pivo_ , she thinks, recalling that the pub she favors serves breakfast. If he’s not there this early, there’s always the night.

Lydia wraps a scarf around her neck three times before stepping out into the sunshine. Yes, she could use some coffee. But it’s early enough that there won’t be too many people on the bridge yet, and without even thinking, her feet take her back to the Vltava River. She spots him on the bridge as soon as she gets to the west entrance. He’s leaning over the side, back under the watchful gaze of St. John of Nepomuk. She could sneak up behind him, push him over like John himself was pushed, and then keep on moving. And it is simply in the knowing that she _could_ that keeps her from moving forward, makes her turn right around and head back into the Lesser Quarter.

She could really use that coffee.

 

 

 

 


End file.
